


Letting Go

by Grinner_H



Series: Scars [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ominous_Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ominous_Rain/gifts).



**[UNO]**

 

Gokudera tilts his head against the window, watching icy drops paint themselves along the glass. He's sitting on the wooden windowsill, right leg propped up, left foot placed flat against the cement floor. His arm rests upon his bent knee, fingers fidgeting with the lighter in his right hand.

He's got a little pattern going - opening the flip-top, igniting the flame, snapping it shut - over and over again. _Click, click, click,_ as if he's trying hard to fill the spaces between the ticking of the clock on the wall. It's a bad habit born out of nervousness, uncertainty, or anxiety; one that never leaves him because it's as much a part of him as his constant smoking, as his love for blowing shit up.

Gokudera watches the seemingly endless rain pour unrestrainedly from the iron gray sky. Lightning streaks across the heavy, ominous clouds - merciless and _violent_ \- like it's seeking to destroy anything foolish enough to stand in its path. Thunder is quick to follow - deafening, angry roars like war cries; as if it's trying to outdo the sorrowful, wailing wind which rumbles through his otherwise quiet home.

Cold seeps into his flesh and worms its way along his bones - from the glass, from the weather, Gokudera's not sure _which_ anymore - and it _hurts,_ fucking _burns_ something awful. It makes him want to claw at his skin, to tear his way out of it 'cause it's white-hot and freezing and _oh my fucking god_ he just can't _breathe -_

_"Stop that."_

The voice - sharp and laced with irritation - makes Gokudera look up at its owner seated on the couch across from him.

Squalo is staring at him from over the top of his book, slate gray eyes flashing barely constrained annoyance.

A deep, angry scowl instantly blooms across Gokudera's face. "What the _fuck,_ Squalo?!?"

Squalo lowers the book, points it at the lighter in Gokudera's hand. "You've been doing that for the past half-hour. It's driving me fucking _insane._ "

Fury slams corrosive and scalding in the depths of Gokudera's gut and he's on his feet in a flash, struggling to keep a firm leash on the rapidly rising wrath. His fingers curl themselves around the metal device, so tight he almost breaks it in half. "He's _late._ " He wants to scream, wants to rage like the storm against the swordsman sitting in _his_ house, on _his_ furniture, acting like lord and master of everything and behaving like he doesn't give a fuck when he damn well _should._ "He's fucking _late,_ and _you're_ reading a fucking _spy_ novel."

Squalo shifts his weight on the couch, adjusts the black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and makes a grand show of turning a page. "Better than moping and fretting like some fucking teenaged girl."

Gokudera wants to kill him. He wants to cross the living room, snatch that blasted paperback out of Squalo's hands, and beat the everloving shit out of him until he can't fucking _stand._ He wants to scream himself hoarse, burn that stupid book along with the rest of his infernal collection.

He doesn't.

Gokudera kicks the coffee table as hard as he can. A coffee cup - the cheesy blue one with an idiotic smiley face emblazoned on it, the phrase _Be Happy!_ printed right under the curve, which Yamamoto bought at a flea market three years ago just 'cause he thought it was cute - falls off the edge and smashes into tiny shards against the tile floor. Gokudera doesn't care to clean it up. It was a stupid mug, anyway.

He sits himself back on the windowsill, teeth grinding in roiling rage. "Fuck you, Squalo. Just, _fuck you._ "

Squalo doesn't move from the couch, only flips Gokudera off with his metal hand. "Back at ya, asshole."

Gokudera says nothing, merely goes back to his routine - _click, click, click_ \- just to piss Squalo off further. He stares at his reflection in the window - his visage a mask of churning hate and bone-deep sadness. Gokudera hates the cold that solidly anchors itself in his veins and the relentless, indifferent rain that burns and scrapes and never fucking _stops._

It was raining the day the Tenth died.

Gokudera exhales against the window, watching his breath mist upon the otherwise immaculate glass, before fading to nothingness as if it were never there in the first place. A large bolt of lightning cracks across the gloomy sky and the entire house is plunged into darkness.

Squalo curses up a storm, as if to rival the one raging on outside.

Gokudera decides he really, _really_ hates the rain.

\--

**[DUE]**

 

Yamamoto stands in the _genkan,_ left foot halfway out of his sodden shoe, dark eyebrows lifted in half-bemusement, half-annoyance. 

Rows and rows of candles line the foyer - this haphazard mess heating the entire house and dripping wax everywhere. A deep frown settles itself upon his forehead, the right corner of his mouth quirks in disapproval. _When exactly,_ Yamamoto thinks, toeing off his ruined leather shoes and stepping into the foyer, _did this place turn into the Hall of fucking Candles?_ Briefly, he wonders if this is Squalo's bizarre attempt at being _romantic._ He dismisses the idea as quickly as it enters his mind, the notion is too ludicrous to even contemplate.

Yamamoto makes his way into the kitchen, socks squelching distastefully against the hardwood floor. He finds Squalo half-sitting on the counter, squinting at his book and absently twirling something in his hand. Flames dance merrily from candles situated atop the counter, the kitchen table, the floor, absolutely fucking _everywhere._

Yamamoto sighs, tiredly rubs his hand over his face, and unslings his katana sheath, letting it thud against the floor without much care. "Hey."

Squalo doesn't bother to look up from his book. "Power's out."

Yamamoto snorts derisively, heads toward the refrigerator. "Yeah, I can see that." He yanks the door open with much more force than necessary, reaches for the nearest can of beer. He leans his weight against the fridge, popping the can open and taking a long gulp. The cold feels good sliding down his parched throat, it spreads relief through him the way the flames' heat gradually warms his skin. 

He presses the aluminum can to his forehead, studies his lover struggling to read in the dim light, in that completely ridiculous posture. Yamamoto feels his blood tingling beneath his flesh. He takes another swig of beer, loosens his tie. "Y'know, we _do_ have this thing in the office desk drawer. It's called a _torch -_ "

Squalo removes his glasses and sighs, puts the book down on the countertop as if he's given up trying to decipher too-small words in too-dim light, and finally looks at Yamamoto. He holds the thing in his hand up, Yamamoto recognizes it as the broken handle of his torchlight. "We don't anymore." Squalo gets off the counter, sets the broken piece next to his paperback, hair swaying dangerously close to a brightly burning candle. "Fucking thing doesn't work."

Yamamoto detaches himself from the comfort of the fridge door, steps closer to his lover, smirk etching itself upon his tanned countenance. "It's not gonna work if you _break_ it."

It's Squalo's turn to snort this time. His silverish-gray eyes glint dangerously, somehow made more luminous in the candlelight. "I broke it because it's a fucking piece of shit. You could just - " He trails off, gaze traveling to the front of Yamamoto's Oxford blue shirt. "That blood..."

Yamamoto glances down, as if noticing it for the first time. There's crimson splashed all over the front of his suit. He looks back at his lover, waves a hand dismissively. "Relax, none of it's mine." He drinks the last of his beer but doesn't swallow, crushes the can in his palm, and tosses it to the floor. Long fingers reach out to tangle themselves in ridiculous silver hair - almost everything about Squalo is _ridiculous_ these days, it makes Yamamoto want to hug him and break his neck at the same time - and Yamamoto presses himself against his lover, latches his lips against Squalo's, sharing the drink with him.

Squalo chokes, amber liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth and running down his chin, his neck, his t-shirt. 

Yamamoto follows the trail, kissing and biting his way along pale skin stretched over taut vein and too-sharp bone. He nips at the Adam's apple, feels Squalo swallow against his mouth and shiver in his arms.

Yamamoto makes his way back up to Squalo's lips, kisses fierce and hungry like he's trying to take a bite out of him. He paints a meaningless path along his lover's cheekbone with his tongue, makes his way higher and higher till his snarl is pressed against the shell of Squalo's left ear. _"Let's fuck."_

Squalo's got his fingers curled into the fabric of Yamamoto's shirt - curled into the blood - somewhere between pulling him closer and pushing him away. His breaths come out short and needy and reluctant all at once. "Wait."

Yamamoto's answer is his hand sliding under Squalo's shirt, rough palm gliding against hot skin, thumb running over an already hardened nipple.

Squalo arches into the touch, grits his teeth so hard, Yamamoto's almost sure he'll grind them into dust. " _Wait,_ dammit!"

Yamamoto lifts Squalo, sits him on the counter and starts to undo his jeans. The button pops, zipper unfurls like an accompaniment to the symphony of Squalo's faint whimpers and moans. Yamamoto slides his fingers into the waistband of Squalo's boxers, brushes the head of his leaking cock. "You're already wet."

Squalo valiantly bites back a groan. " _Fuck,_ Takeshi - " His eyes - gone nearly black with lust - dart nervously to the side, latches themselves on a spot somewhere near the kitchen doorway. "Not fucking _here._ "

Yamamoto glances over his shoulder at the blatantly empty doorway, turns back to the man writhing in his arms. "Why the hell not? It's just a good a place as any." His hand wraps itself entirely around the throbbing erection in his grasp and _tugs._

Squalo keens and bucks upward and doesn't protest anymore.

\--

**[TRE]**

 

He passes her in the hallway on the way to Tsuna's office ( _former_ office, actually, but he still can't bring himself to think that way no matter how long it's been), eyes hooded and wearing a little sag to her shoulders which isn't usually _there;_ nearly imperceptible unless one _really_ knew where to look. A cigarette is lodged between her deceptively dainty fingers, always the same brand - Camel Crush; so similar and yet, so unlike her brother.

Tension easily makes itself at home between his broad shoulders, like a familiar but unwelcome guest, and Yamamoto instantly hates himself for it - the same way he loathes the strength she possesses which he so clearly lacks.

Bianchi notices him too. She rapidly straightens, posture shifting from despondent to prideful in a mere moment. She looks straight at him, emerald irises accusatory and unforgiving - Yamamoto greatly abhors those eyes for the way they're _always_ looking at him, for the person he sees in them - and her shapely pink lips curl into a sneer that screams cruelty and derision, that shouldn't belong on her beautiful face. "I've always known," she intones snidely, pauses to take a drag from her cigarette before exhaling a thick cloud of menthol smoke, "that you were never good enough for him." Her voice is thick with undiluted hatred, her eyes acerbic like her poison - tiny daggers which gleefully stab away at whatever's left of Yamamoto's crushed heart, eroding his broken soul. "You _killed_ him."

He averts his gaze - and dear god, he fucking _hates_ that, _knows_ he's being a fucking _coward_ \- and hurries quickly toward his intended destination, unable to trust his vocal cords to _not_ fuck things up.

It's only when he's surrounded by the weighty emptiness of Tsuna's office - back glued to the door as if he's afraid a step forward will shatter him to unmendable pieces, expressive eyes unable to unsee the pool of blood which isn't really _there,_ soaking into the delicate fibers of plush carpet - that he allows himself to speak into the desolate, too-loud silence. "I know."

_"You killed him."_

It never stops hurting no matter how many times she says it.

It never stops hurting because he knows she's _right._

\--

**[QUATTRO]**

 

 _It's so strange,_ Gokudera thinks, pushing a tendril of pale hair from his face, _how some things don't change, even if you never do them anymore._

He is sitting on top of a washing machine in the laundry facility of Vongola Headquarters, much like he used to as a child, watching his sister pull clothes from the dryer.

Strange, like how she's always insisted on doing the laundry - and the cooking and cleaning and sewing - even when she's had people to do it for her. Strange that she's as domesticated as she is deadly, ever since she was this young thing trying to take the place of the mother he never had, never really _knew._

Strange, like how he's finally able to look at her uncovered face without needing to throw up.

Bianchi hums quietly to herself - an old Italian folk song Gokudera's convinced he's had drilled into him since infanthood - and stacks tank tops one on top of another in a seemingly endless pile, rolls socks into neat little balls.

So strange to be doing laundry on a Thursday night - this terribly _mundane_ thing - when their world is falling apart; but here they are. 

Gokudera leans forward, forearms resting upon his thighs, hands clasping between his knees. "You _could_ cut him a little slack, y'know?"

Bianchi picks up a maroon shirt - one that's clearly too big for her, Gokudera recognizes it instantly as one of Reborn's - and folds it more meticulously than she did the others, saying nothing.

A frown creases Gokudera's forehead, his teeth catch his bottom lip. "I'm mad at him too." He slides off the washing machine, goes to stand beside his older sister. "But it isn't like any of this is his fault."

Bianchi gathers the freshly folded clothes into her arm, ignoring him. She does that a lot these days.

Gokudera wants so desperately to lash out, to knock all those clothes to the floor, to scream until she hears him. But he does nothing, even when she heads toward the doorway to leave and he feels the distance between them widen like a chasm, like an ocean he can't cross.

"I'm sorry," he calls out - voice hoarse like he's smoked too many cigarettes, even when he hasn't smoked in eight months - and feels a tiny bud of hope burgeon in his heart when she pauses in the doorway, "that I let you down."

_I'm sorry I wasn't a better brother._

Bianchi turns out the light.

\--

**[CINQUE]**

 

 _It'd have been infinitely better,_ Gokudera thinks critically, eyeing the little gravelly bumps which cover the wide expanse of his living room ceiling, _if I'd had it painted orange._

He's lying upside down, legs hooked over the backrest of the couch, back against the seat cushions, and head hanging off the edge; studying the ceiling in minute detail in an attempt to drown out the noise emanating from the master bedroom. 

_Orange is such a **lively** color. It's so loud and bright and **warm.** It's just so... **there,** like a petulant three-year-old demanding you pay it attention._ Gokudera shifts, head hanging dangerously close to the hard stone floor. _White is such a boring color._ He spreads his arms out, the fingers of his left hand curling around the lime green fabric of the armrest - holding on for support - while his right flails a little in midair. _No, it's the **absence** of color. It's so... **plain,** like vanilla. It's a pity no one ever likes orange._

Gokudera sighs in exasperation, impatiently waiting for that numbness which always stubbornly refuses to come. He'd thought all the blood rushing to his head would render the rest of his limbs insensible. He was wrong. 

He pulls himself up, righting his form before proceeding to look around the room. Yamamoto really _does_ have the worst taste in design - _In **everything,**_ Gokudera silently adds, thinking about his roommate's current lover. Everything is so _white_ (with the exception of the couch, Gokudera had picked _that_ one out), it _hurts._ He sighs again, eyes traveling to the ceiling once more. _It really should have been orange... and red._

Gokudera stands, feeling his body tingle unpleasantly when blood rushes all the way to his feet. He stretches his arms upward, gaze falling upon the door to Yamamoto's bedroom. Gokudera drops his arms, the corner of his lips quirking into an irritated scowl. 

It's always like this. He'd try his damnest to think of everything _but_ whatever's going on beyond that door, only to have his attention magnetically pulled right back to it anyway.

It isn't like Yamamoto and Squalo are _loud,_ per se. Squalo is, in fact, a lot quieter than Gokudera had originally thought he'd be. But it doesn't change the fact that they're _audible_ and the walls sure as fuck aren't _soundproof._

So he listens - he always inevitably _does_ \- while that ache in his chest builds and builds and threatens to overwhelm him completely.

He listens, shutting Squalo out and focusing solely on Yamamoto. He painfully drinks in the harsh, erratic breaths, the sharp staccato of pleasured moans he knows too damn well because they're forever emblazoned within the depths of his mind. He listens to that deep groan that _he'd_ always successfully managed to coax from Yamamoto's throat, right before climax. 

And _then,_ he hears it - _"Gokudera,"_ agonized and broken on Yamamoto's lips - and just like every time before, never stops cursing his thrice damned fine hearing for it. 

Gokudera doesn't sleep at all that night. 

He knows Squalo wouldn't, either.

\--

**[SEI]**

 

Gokudera runs his fingers along the cuff of his incarnadine shirt, brows furrowing contemplatively. His lips remain pulled into a stern, straight line, his countenance has pensive solemnity and anguished grief stamped all over it. He traces the bloodstains embedded into the fabric - ugly, rusty brown which, even after more than half a year, refuses to fade away.

_It never will._

The thought never fails to be depressing, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself he's okay with it. He _has_ to be. This had been _his_ choice.

But he can't halt the choking self-loathing that creeps up his throat each time he thinks about what he'd done and what he'd caused in the aftermath.

Gokudera tugs his sleeve upward, exposing the scars which decorate his wrist. Long, angry red lines - a wound which never stops bleeding long after it had closed. The pads of his fingers travel over the rough, uneven skin which runs from below his palm almost halfway across his forearm. 

And still, the numbness evades him. Even back _then_ it had been nothing but _hurt_ \- scalding and crushing and _terrifying;_ always present, always in his face screaming, "I'm _here,_ dammit!"

The sensation of eyes on him shakes him out of his ruminations and Gokudera looks up to find Squalo staring at him with a strange, undecipherable expression.

Gokudera quickly pulls his sleeve back down, hiding scars which Squalo has already seen many times before. _"What?"_

Squalo rolls his eyes hard enough to be _heard._ "You're such an idiot."

Gokudera raises a slender eyebrow sardonically. "Wouldn't _you_ do the same if _Xanxus_ died?"

Squalo frowns in displeasure but offers no reply.

Gokudera isn't expecting one.

\--

**[SETTE]**

 

"Y'know, I sometimes wish he could hear me."

They've had this conversation a million times. Squalo knows that _sometimes_ really means _always,_ wishes the same damn thing too, though he'll never give Gokudera the satisfaction of knowing that. He tugs the white-dyed-crimson glove from his right hand, runs his fingers through his hair and gets stuck halfway through. Squalo's lips quirk in faint annoyance. There's blood crusting in his hair already, it's gonna be a fucking _bitch_ to get out. But he's used to it, like he's used to this script, so he recites his line by rote. "He's stubborn, not unlike you."

Gokudera scoffs in half-hearted disdain, it doesn't have any real bile in it. "I don't know why it had to be _you._ "

They're not looking at each other. Both men's eyes are trained on Yamamoto - cellphone glued to his ear, leaning on the handle of his katana, sharp edge still buried into the chest of the final Millefiore grunt he recently felled on this wide open field - some ten feet away.

Gokudera kicks a pebble with the front of his leather shoe, exhales sharply. "I don't even _like_ you."

Squalo shrugs, not quite sure what to say to that. He watches Yamamoto end the call, retrieve his sword and wipe it clean on the corpse. 

And then, Yamamoto looks straight at Squalo, eyes gone dark with raw, scorching lust - a predatory, restless hunger like a feral beast pacing back and forth in a steel cage.

Squalo's breath hitches, _knows_ what that look signifies, wonders if Yamamoto ever looked at Gokudera that way.

\--

**[OTTO]**

 

 _This,_ Yamamoto thinks snidely, teeth nipping along the underside of Squalo's pale-as-a-fishbelly jaw, _is **not** how it's supposed to be._

Beneath him, Squalo writhes; breaths hitching erratically like quiet sobs, like words halted before they can truly take shape. 

Yamamoto presses his sneer against sweat-slicked skin, wonders when _wrong_ became such a gargantuan part of his quotidian routine, wonders what _right_ is supposed to feel like. 

Somewhere in the back of his overclouded mind - the part that's still _rational_ and somewhat _sane_ \- he _remembers._ He knows the _why,_ of course. He's also indubitably certain of the _how_ s, _who_ s, and _what if_ s - even the _when,_ though he pretends he isn't. 

It's easier when he fools himself into forgetfulness. 

Yamamoto kisses a trail past the lively bob of Squalo's Adam's apple down to his clavicle. He hates the too-sharp collarbone, hates the way it protrudes beneath all the wrong skin, hates the scar which curves from the knobby end of the bone to the middle of Squalo's chest.

Some days - _today_ being one of those - Yamamoto feels he could really _despise_ Squalo. 

His jaw clenches unpleasantly at the thought. Yamamoto frowns deeply, runs rough hands along the planes of Squalo's limber frame, equal parts repulsed and turned on by the sensation of all the wrong scars in all the wrong locations adorning his lover's slender torso.

Yamamoto deeply resents this - fine white lines in places they _aren't_ supposed to be, unmarked patches of skin where they _should_ be marked. 

He growls - this animalistic, guttural thing like gravel in the pit of his voice. 

Squalo's limbs - all four of them - further tighten around him, clinging like a wet garment against his skin. 

Yamamoto's hand wanders southward, over the bumps of Squalo's ribcage, over the smooth treasure trail, to grasp at his lover's throbbing cock. 

Squalo gasps, moans like this breathy, helpless thing. _"Takeshi,"_ he whimpers, fingers digging unkindly into the flesh where Yamamoto's neck meets his back. 

_"Takeshi, Takeshi,"_ like an unceasing prayer. 

It makes Yamamoto's insides constrict agonizingly. Makes his chest hurt so bad, he can barely _breathe._

In all the years they've known each other (seven of which were spent as lovers), Gokudera never addressed him as anything but _Yamamoto._

And good _God,_ it fucking _burns._ It makes Yamamoto's grip tighten around the slippery shaft of Squalo's cock - wrenching wanton cries from his lungs like a back alley abortion. 

Squalo goes impossibly tight around Yamamoto. For all the times they've fucked, Yamamoto feels he'll never get used to this - this desperate, clenching _heat;_ like Squalo doesn't want to let him go.

It makes Yamamoto moan in churning rage, the edges of which are only sharpened by mind-numbing ecstasy. His hips snap forward - sharp like a razor blade - in a fluid motion that's both pleasurable and cruel. 

Such an action drives a keen cry from Squalo's graceless lips - and it's scary how much he sounds like Gokudera just then. 

Yamamoto can't bear to hear it, can't get enough of it, so he silences Squalo with a kiss, savoring the pliant flesh of his lover's tongue. 

Squalo tastes too much like grief and desire, too much like _himself._

He even _smells_ wrong - like red tea instead of freshly brewed coffee, like the earth in lieu of gunpowder, like leather and grass and the wrong brand of cigarettes. 

It makes Yamamoto want to turn him inside out, fuck him until he rends him in half. The fingers of his right hand gradually unfold themselves from around his lover's wet cock, winding themselves instead into streams of heavy hair. 

_It's beautiful hair,_ Yamamoto thinks, fine and thick and just about _everywhere._ But it's not the _right_ kind of hair.

Yamamoto wants rough and short hair - the kind that frames a fair, irascible face - in his grasp. He thrusts harder - waves of deep-seated anger slamming into him over and over again, the way _he_ rams himself balls-deep into Squalo. _"This,"_ Yamamoto says, staring into Squalo's _not-green_ eyes like a challenge, fingers twisting and constricting into silver strands like Death's pernicious grip. "You should cut it."

The response is something unexpected, though Yamamoto believes he should have seen it coming miles away. 

Squalo's eyes - shades of gray and sparking like an ignited fuse - burn with a kind of intense hatred Yamamoto does not recall ever being on the receiving end of. His bony hands come to rest on Yamamoto's broad chest, pushing Yamamoto off of him, _out_ of him.

Squalo rises from the bed, clad in sweat and bite marks and his own skin, and makes for the bedroom door in a whirlwind of hair and hurt. _"Fuck you, Takeshi."_

Yamamoto's left in bed with nothing but the echo of a slamming door, an aching hard-on, and a disturbing sense of déjà vu. 

All he can do is fall against the mattress and laugh like he means it.

\--

**[NOVE]**

 

But it's the words - simple, nondescript letters strung together in a straightforward sentence, black against white in Squalo's surprisingly refined hand - which knocks the breath out of him like a well-placed strike to his solar plexus. 

It is then that Yamamoto discovers how horribly unprepared he is for the message - Squalo's tormenting pain and cankerous regret - which greets him upon his return to an uncharacteristically quiet home.

He reads the solitary line over and over and over ( _I'm sorry I'm not Gokudera_ ), until the letters begin to blur and jumble together in an unsightly swirl of _not possible_ and _what the fuck,_ struggling and failing to make sense of it because Squalo _shouldn't_ \- isn't _supposed_ to - leave.

Disbelief thrums insidiously through Yamamoto's veins; dark, bitter anger lodges itself in the back of his throat a quick second later, intransigently unwilling to budge.

Yamamoto's jaw locks tight, molars grinding together painfully while his lips thin into a grim line. 

He aggressively tears the note off his bedroom door and crumples it, but somehow doesn't have the heart to throw it away.

\--

**[DIECI]**

 

"Why did you do it?"

Squalo ducks his head, in a way that causes a thick curtain of white hair to shadow the right side of his face.

It's a defense mechanism, Gokudera knows. A rather bootless barrier to keep his emotions from being read so easily.

Because Gokudera _can_ read him, in the same way Squalo so facilely reads those beloved books of his - cheesy spy novels with unnecessarily convoluted plotlines and twists Gokudera can see coming a mile away.

Gokudera smirks around the barrel of his unlit cigarette. _It's funny the kinds of things you pick up when you've lived with someone long enough._

He studies his companion carefully, rich green gaze effortlessly piercing right through the fastidiously welded armor Squalo so painstakingly shields himself with. "Why did you stay so long if you knew it was only going to hurt?"

_Because I love him too._

Squalo doesn't say the words, but Gokudera hears them anyway.

\--

**[UNDICI]**

 

It's been seven days. 

Gokudera huffs irritably, pronounced frown painting deep creases upon his forehead like waves. His arms hang limp by his side, fingers flexing ceaselessly, itching for a cigarette or twenty. 

Seven days since Squalo left, and Yamamoto has turned into a pissant fucking _drunk._

He's sitting on the bathroom floor, back propped against the tub, mouth hanging open in deep sleep, with puke down the front of his Anderson & Sheppard suit. 

A bottle of Kissui - three quarters empty - lays on its side on the polished marble floor. Gokudera scowls, glares at it in absolute disgust. 

"You're such an idiot," he asseverates, annoyed that Yamamoto can't hear him. 

It _hurts_ \- this crushing, burdensome agony like the serrated edge of a rusty blade hacking away at his flesh and drawing the skeleton from his skin. It makes Gokudera shiver uncontrollably. 

After the Tenth died, Gokudera never thought it possible to ever feel such maddening pain again. 

But he feels it _now_ \- staring at Yamamoto's unconscious form, raging at the moron's constant refusal to just _attempt_ at being _happy._

Gokudera snarls something fierce, kicks the side of Yamamoto's outstretched leg in aggravation. "Wake the fuck _up,_ asshole," he commands, meaning that in more ways than one.

Yamamoto groans, head lolling to the side the way some corpses do in those really bad horror flicks Haru adores. His eyes remain shut, but his lips bend and shape around a name Gokudera does _not_ expect to hear. 

_"Squalo."_

For what seems like several moments, Gokudera is shocked into silence. And then, he laughs. "You really _are_ an idiot."

Yamamoto says nothing else, once again dead to the world. 

Gokudera releases an exasperated sigh, sinks down to crouch by his once-lover. His hand hovers over the crown of Yamamoto's head - hesitant - before awkwardly coming to rest on top of his scalp. He runs his fingers lightly through those dark, spiked strands; the weight bearing down upon his shoulders easing somewhat. It makes Gokudera want to cry. 

_**Squalo's** an idiot, too,_ Gokudera thinks bitterly, wondering how hearts can still break long after they've stopped beating.

\--

**[DODICI]**

 

 _This is the part,_ Yamamoto thinks acidly, glaring up at the sheer _whiteness_ of his bathroom ceiling, _that I fucking hate the most._

The marble floor is uncomfortably cold beneath the length of his body, but Yamamoto - much as he desires to - can't bring himself to move.

This is the hardest part of it all - a single moment disguised as several, stretched thin between one bottle of vodka to the next, extended to his next kill, his next fuck, his maybe-final cigarette.

Yamamoto hates moments like these the most, because it is _precisely_ in moments such as these where he is - unbearable hangover notwithstanding - startlingly clear-eyed.

And good fucking _God, clear-eyed_ is the last thing he wants to be.

Because _clarity_ is worse than a sharp knee in the fucking balls.

 _Clarity_ is being filleted while forcibly kept conscious, like a fucking _sackful_ of bricks right in the face. _Self-awareness_ is Yamamoto's curse - bringing with it unending guilt and raw, searing _pain;_ helplessness like staring into the unfathomable depths of an abyss.

There is nothing worse than the feeling of consummate despair. It envelops him like thousands of clammy hands, dragging him so low, he has no idea what _up_ is meant to feel like anymore.

Yamamoto vehemently abhors that feeling - that dark, flagitious realization that he's royally _fucked up._

The taste of failure has gone past the point of bitterness. 

Yamamoto _knows_ the weight of failure like his own shadow - it bears down upon him like Sisyphus's boulder, looms portentously over him like a million Damoclean swords.

It makes him want to claw at his own skin, and scream until he can't hear himself anymore, but he can't - doesn't _want_ to - fucking _move,_ so he settles for staring miserably up at the ceiling like a wretched, starving pup caught in a thunderstorm.

It's times like these that Yamamoto desperately craves his father's deep wisdom, ardently wishes for Reborn's steadfast guidance, for Tsuna's indomitable will, for Gokudera's unflagging passion.

But they're all _gone_ \- they just _left,_ taking jagged little pieces of Yamamoto's heart with them.

And now, _Squalo's_ gone too.

Yamamoto's losing his family like he's losing his mind. The insanity of it all has left him bereft - empty but for the niggling feeling that he'd fucked _this_ part up more than he should have. 

_Squalo._

Yamamoto pinches his eyes shut, runs a tired hand over his face, utterly _loathing_ the hollow ache in his chest, the nauseating, clenching feeling - tight like an iron fist - in his gut, at the thought of how things ended between them. 

He hadn't _meant_ for it to come to this. And yet, here he is, in _this_ neverending unsettling moment - lying in the middle of a bathroom which reeks of vomit and regret, contemplating the absolute _suckfest_ that is his life.

It is _then_ that Yamamoto realizes he'd never truly understood what _pathetic_ meant till _now._

If Gokudera were here, he'd exaggeratedly roll his eyes and bitch and yell at Yamamoto for being a total fucking _idiot._

If Squalo were here, he'd dramatically roll his eyes and bitch and scream at Yamamoto for being an utter fucking _moron,_ before dragging him out by the scruff of his neck and forcing him into a fight till the blood once again roars in his veins and his amber eyes glint lust and murder.

Yamamoto abruptly sits up, almost slamming his head against the sink in the process; stunned and bewildered to realize he likes _Squalo's_ method a lot better.

But it's only when the edges of shock begin blurring away into something resembling a sensation akin to a piano falling on top of his head - fucking _self-awareness_ \- that Yamamoto acknowledges he doesn't want to lose Squalo too. 

\--

**[TREDICI]**

 

The last thing Squalo expects to see, upon entering his Boss's office, is Yamamoto Takeshi.

Yamamoto looks like shit, but it's the pair of eyes encircled by dark rings which catches Squalo's attention - eyes that burn into him with a kind of intense hunger, something that's very much _alive_ and _present._ Eyes which look like they actually _see_ him.

See _him._

Squalo finds it increasingly difficult to withstand that gaze. He averts his sight, catches Xanxus staring at him from behind his desk, with a _sort your shit out and do not return until it's fucking **done**_ look, effectively cutting off the rant working its way out of Squalo's throat. 

Wordlessly, he grabs Yamamoto's arm - not even caring to be _gentle_ about it - and drags him out into the hallway. He shuts the sturdy oaken door and whirls on Yamamoto, anger rushing to the surface and swallowing the bone-deep _hurt._ "Just what the _fuck_ \- "

Yamamoto interrupts, firmly grabbing Squalo's narrow shoulders and pulling him close until they're practically nose to nose. _"I don't **want** you to be Gokudera."_

The words tumble out in a rush, as if Yamamoto's been storing them like a long-held breath.

Squalo's eyes go impossibly wide, every malediction he'd been preparing to throw at Yamamoto wilting away like a popped balloon. 

Yamamoto stares at him, eyes burning almost gold, like sunlight upon water's edge. His hands slide down the length of Squalo's arms, coming to rest in those white-gloved hands. "I don't want you to be anyone but yourself."

Squalo returns the gaze warily; studying Yamamoto's countenance, his voice, searching those eyes for any trace of mendacity, of doubt. 

He finds none.

Somewhere inside him - in a place he'd thought long ago gouged out and discarded - Squalo feels the burgeoning spark of _hope;_ of _fear_ and _yearning_ mingled with the hurt.

He turns his head, hiding behind his hair like a fortress, because he's _terrified_ of letting Yamamoto _see._ "You're a real asshole, y'know, Takeshi?"

Yamamoto chuckles, this self-deprecating thing which - oddly enough - has a kind of _levity_ to it. He gently grasps Squalo's chin, guiding kindly until they're once again face to face. Yamamoto leans forward, presses their foreheads together. "I know." He tenderly kisses the corner of Squalo's mouth, forms words against his skin. "And maybe this'll bag me the Brazen Asshole of the Year award, but I'm hoping you'll still love me anyway."

Squalo very nearly shatters then, but somehow, the thought of it doesn't scare him at all. 

\--

**[QUATTORDICI]**

 

Squalo's room feels cold - barren and lifeless, _somber_ like a mausoleum.

This fact, in and of itself, comes with no real surprise to Yamamoto's mind. He _gets_ it, because he - better than anyone - understands how a place perpetually lived in could feel like it's been abandoned for centuries. 

The only sign of life in this lively-dreary room is the rain which beats against the windows.

Upon the narrow bed, Yamamoto works Squalo out of that damnable leather uniform, savors the naked expanse of skin beneath. 

In his arms, Squalo writhes; pleasure and _want_ and _heat_ rising off him like smoke curls - starkly at odds with the gelid tomb around them. 

The contrast is _astounding_ \- comforting and _terrifying_ all at once. _It's funny,_ Yamamoto reflects, latching his lips, teeth, tongue, and hands to Squalo's flesh; seeking the reassuring familiarity of his warmth, _how we both died when Gokudera did._

Moist, agile fingers work their way inside Squalo's unimaginably tight heat, tenderly caressing him from the inside out. Yamamoto carefully stokes the fire within in _that_ way which has Squalo's ass clenching and thighs trembling, lascivious cries spilling from his lips like blood red wine over the crystal edge of a goblet.

Yamamoto buries his face against Squalo's neck, feeling the rapidly quickening pulse beneath the curve of his lips. _We just didn't realize it because our hearts were still beating._

 _Our hearts._

Yamamoto's fingers cease their movements inside his lover. He withdraws them and lifts his face, sitting back on his haunches to stare at Squalo - naked and open and trusting - intently.

From beneath half-lidded eyes, Squalo looks up at Yamamoto in dazed confusion. His mouth - so enticing and beautifully profane - parts around a question Yamamoto does not allow him the opportunity to voice. 

"I'm sorry."

Squalo's gray eyebrows scrunch together in blatant bewilderment, clearly not understanding where Yamamoto is going with this. 

Yamamoto exhales loudly, cards nervous fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. The words are hard to express - stubbornly clinging to the tip of his tongue like a man desperately holding on to the edge of a cliff to keep from falling - but Yamamoto _knows_ that they _must_ be said. 

"I know I'm not what you hoped I'd be," he begins slowly, anxiety and frustration and _goddamn **clarity**_ churning around in his gut. "I don't know how to stop being..." He pauses, gestures at himself awkwardly in a wide, sweeping motion. " _...this._ The way I am now."

Yamamoto sighs heavily, crawls over to his lover and places a hand on his heart. "Maybe time _won't_ heal us. I can't get my old self back. But I can still _be_ here, with _you._ "

He takes a deep breath and lets it out quickly. Although he is afraid of the possible hurt and rejection he might discover in them, he does not allow himself to look anywhere but Squalo's eyes. "I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose anyone I love ever again."

Squalo's eyes widen in obvious shock. In them, Yamamoto detects disbelief, relief, and a myriad of other overwhelming emotions; and somewhere beneath all that, a kind of happiness. 

It is in _that_ moment that Yamamoto knows his confession has hit home. He kisses Squalo then, enveloping the deceivingly frail body with his own, pouring everything he _is_ into that lone gesture. _Forgive me._

His arms go around that thin frame, and Yamamoto sits back, pulling his lover along with him, on top of him, _around_ him. 

Squalo clings to him like ivy, rides him like a wave. Those smoky gray eyes are glinting like the edge of a blade - desire and passion and too many emotions dancing in them like fireworks. He says nothing but one word - _Takeshi_ \- over and over again like a broken record.

Yamamoto tangles his fingers into the edges of Squalo's hair, embraces him like he'd _die_ if he ever let him go. He rocks inside Squalo's slick, satin heat, and when he cums, it's with Squalo's name on his tongue. 

\--

**[QUINDICI]**

 

"Y'know," Yamamoto begins, absently threading his fingers through Squalo's silky hair. "He never once said _I love you._ "

Squalo shifts from where he's lying on Yamamoto's chest, looking up at his lover inquiringly.

Yamamoto sighs, tries to ignore the lead building in the pit of his stomach. "I guess he never truly _did._ "

Squalo sits up, disrupting the rhythm of Yamamoto's hand in his hair, and shakes his head. "No." When he stares at his lover, there's empathy and a kind of hard honesty reflecting in his eyes. "He just loved Sawada _more._ "

Yamamoto reaches up to caress the side of Squalo's neck tenderly before pulling him back down for a kiss. "I know," he breathes against the corner of his lover's lip. 

_I **know.**_

But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less. And it's _agonizing_ \- this scorching, wrenching thing bubbling out of Yamamoto's gut and tearing from his lungs like meathooks pulling his ribcage from his skin. 

Eight months after Gokudera's death, Yamamoto permits himself to cry for the first time.

\--

**[SEDICI]**

 

Squalo sets his bag down on the coffee table, gaze traversing the width of Yamamoto's living room, lingering on the windowsill.

It feels as if time itself has stopped in here. Squalo closes his eyes, thinks about bright green irises and a sharp tongue, of unbending spirit and forgiveness born out of nothing but unadulterated love. 

A part of Squalo wants to mourn. He _doesn't,_ though. He knows Gokudera would utterly _resent_ that. So he offers gratitude instead.

_Thank you._

"Hey."

Squalo doesn't turn around, not even when he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist. 

Yamamoto gently kisses the curve of Squalo's ear. "Welcome home."

It feels like time has begun moving again. Moving _forward._

_Maybe,_ Squalo thinks wryly, allowing himself a tiny, private smile, _it'll drag us along with it this time._

Squalo opens his eyes, leans into the reassuring warmth with a relieved sigh.

He doesn't hear Gokudera anymore.


End file.
